


(i’m waving my arms in the sky) and everyone’s watching.

by flustraaa



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Assassination Attempt(s), Azula (Avatar) Redemption, Badass Katara (Avatar), Character Study, Childhood Trauma, Gen, Hurt Zuko (Avatar), Introspection, Kinda, Ozai’s A+ Parenting, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Azula (Avatar), Protective Zuko (Avatar), Sokka (Avatar) Needs a Hug, Sokka deserves nice things, Zuko (Avatar) Needs Therapy, Zuko (Avatar) Needs a Hug, Zuko (Avatar) whump, Zuko (Avatar)-centric, Zuko is Not Okay, Zuko is an Awkward Turtleduck, no beta we die like jet, or something like that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-13 05:47:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28898400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flustraaa/pseuds/flustraaa
Summary: he doesn’t say watch out— he doesn’t give any warning. poised beneath the blade one moment is sokka, and the next zuko lies on the ground, unresponsive.maybe, katara thinks, shakily, this was the goal after all.
Relationships: Azula & Zuko (Avatar), Iroh & Zuko (Avatar), Katara & Zuko (Avatar), Sokka & Zuko (Avatar), The Gaang & Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 306





	(i’m waving my arms in the sky) and everyone’s watching.

_** i. ** _

* * *

Emotions are nothing but a distraction— six words that are instilled into Ozai’s bloodline from the time they’re able to toddle about. 

Zuko— never the perfect student— never the adequate student. (Zuko. Never good enough). He learns these words easily, just as he learns that he was lucky to be born, and that every day he lives is an action of mercy (but maybe it is, more than anything, meant to be a lesson in suffering) from his father. 

Zuko learns these words in the way he’s taught to learn everything. He eats, breathes, sleeps— rehearses these Spirts-forsaken words in his every waking moment, and if he’s lucky, maybe he’ll make through the night without his sister trying to play God and murder him in his sleep. 

Because they were never allowed to be siblings in the way he watched that stupid water tribe pair of siblings act— he was never allowed to care, and Azula learned that if she felt anything for him she’d be treated poorly by their father too. 

She’d be treated the way their mother treated her— the way their father treated Zuko. 

See, the dynasty may just be chalked full of complexities— of children who learn to manipulate lightening, and those who are branded for disrespect— but complexity is not to be mistaken for elegance, or grace, or even rightful duties and obligations. 

Complexities are simply things that build up to create a layered cake— and it’s only as Zuko grows that he learns that shit wrapped in a pretty package is still just... shit. 

_ “You love Azula.” Katara had told him once, eyes focused on the side of Zuko’s face after they’d gone to track down Yon Rha. “It’s twisted, don’t get me wrong. But the look in your eyes when you thought she wasn’t going to make it out alive—“ _

_ “I don’t want to talk about this.” He hadn’t shown emotion— at least he hadn’t meant to. Maybe it’s part of her freaky blood bending shit, or whatever, but something in her heard it. She heard it, and she’d simply agreed and allowed them to topple back onto the shores of calmness— silence lapsing between them like the waves beneath their feet.  _

_ She’d let him move on— and it was then he realised that maybe his life wasn’t as much moving on, as it was running away.  _

_ “Yes.” He wasn’t sure why he’d said it, or why he felt so vulnerable to the prying blue eyes beside him, but he had. There was no escaping it. “I do love her. She’s my sister, and we’re both so fucked up. But no matter what, I’m her brother.”  _

Katara hadn’t replied, opting to let him soak up the last sun rays of the day— and when the moon rose, he sat with her until they couldn’t keep their eyes anymore. 

He didn’t want to run anymore— he wanted to allow his thoughts to be his own— to finally absorb and release the thoughts his father had enforced again and again into his skull. 

It’s not an easy thing— and he knows that. 

When he takes the throne, he allows uncle to find him a therapist— they find Azula the help she needs. 

None of it is remotely facile— nothing in Zuko’s life ever is. Sleepless nights remain for years, and then some— he never really gets over any of it, but he does learn to cope and grow. 

Because Zuko was taught that the best thing he could do— by his father, by Azula, by Zhao, by every dignitary of the Fire Nation before his reign— the absolute most helpful, most tactical, most useful he could ever be to anyone was to perish in the name of honour. 

Seppuku, hara-kiri.... cease to exist. By his own hand. For a long time, he wished he had. 

And a want that lasts as long as that... is something that cannot be washed away like the grime from his skin. It clings to him like a hard candy to his back teeth, like crusted rheum to his eyes, and like a bad taste in his mouth. 

It clings to him like Kiyi when she sees him in the summers, or Ozai’s words in the back of his head. 

Because where Zuko is happy, old memories lurk around the corner and a severe crestfallen feeling is seldom far behind.

_** ii. ** _

* * *

What Zuko never learns, is self preservation— especially when it comes to his friends.

Somewhere deep within him, he recognises that he’s the Fire Lord— the first decent one in more than a few decades (Ozai’s voice spits at him that he could never begin to comprehend what decent means. He takes deep breaths with the flame of his candle until the voice goes away).

Somewhere, he recognises that his life is important— but somewhere else inside of him, he recognises that he’s never had people to genuinely show him what loving and being loved feels like. He’s never had people to show him both sides of the sun before— not until the fabulous (a stretch, his emotionless side croons) five adopt him into the group. 

The stupid seven, if he includes Appa and Momo (which he absolutely does).

His thoughts are not linear, per se, as he watches the uncomfortably sharp movement of what initially looks like a civilian, winding up towards Sokka.

First, he processes that he is now in control of his life, and he is now in control of Sokka’s. He tells himself that this is not him being emotionally vulnerable, this is not because Zuko feels— this is because the world will plunge back into war if his— if Sokka dies.

He doesn’t do this because he loves his friends, or because he hates himself (which Sokka will debate later). He does this because in the moment, he believes it to be right.

An cerulean eye for a charred eye— that’s the trade he knowingly makes.

Second, he thinks, Sokka is my best friend, and if anything ever happened to him, Zuko would blow up the ground he walks on, he would spare no expense, no supply, no breath to save him. He thinks, if this would me, Sokka would do the same, and if he wouldn’t, then this is an honourable way to die.

(“ _We don’t say the h-word around Zuko.”_

_ “.... horny?” Toph had asked, while Aang had turned bright red. _

_ “No,” he’d lowered his voice to a whispers, cupping Zuko’s ears with his hands, “honour.” _

_Needless to say, Zuko batted his hands away, flustered beyond compare_ ).

Third, he considers, that there was never really another option. The world could always find someone better than him— but his friends, who had become incredible leaders over time— they could never ever be replaced. It’s an impossible feat.

And for that reason, Zuko steps in front of Sokka just as a dagger descends— and later Katara will ask why he hadn’t bended the assassin away— but Sokka will look at him with such sad eyes, as if he know what Zuko had been thinking, and that thought terrifies him beyond compare.

The cool twang of steel cuts through his fourth and fifth rib— and it’s such a painful reminder of how polar his fathers hand had felt, how completely unlike the way his sisters lighting had electrocuted him.

Katara will look at him like he’s sixteen all over again, and maybe later he’ll make a joke about how he had to keep his favouritism of the water tribe siblings quelled.

But for now, the edges of his vision go dark, and his breaths rattle in his chest as he struggles to breathe.

For now, Sokka will make promises that the wobble on his voice convey he might not be able to keep, and later, Toph will threaten his unconscious with tears in her eyes to take his life if the assassin doesn’t first.

For now, Zuko will slip into the clutches sleep with no regrets or tears to be shed— for now he is worthy, and for now he has atoned for his friends, and for the forty-first.

For now, he is free, and he is exhausted— and he is ready to go home. 

Because Zuko has always known he’d die for what is right— he’s always known that he would do the honourable thing even if it killed him.

He always knew he’d die in his best friend’s arms.   
  


**_ iii. _ **

* * *

Katara is there when it happens, tears beginning to spill over her cheeks as Zuko’s eyes slips shut and his breaths begin to fade. Aang forces air into his broken lungs— she doesn’t breathe until he does, and it’s only then that she thinks, maybe, she can do this.

She is a healer, and this is what she has always done. She fixes his lungs, and remembers that she has trained for years. She has brought the avatar back from the dead, and she has healed Zuko from lightening strikes.

He takes his first breath on his own, and suddenly, she’s not so afraid anymore. Instead, she takes in a slow breath— hitching on the edges and thinks that this is what it means to be human.

She sometimes has to remind herself that that is all they are— they are no longer the lost children they once were, but they are still human. And the deep bruises clouding Zuko’s eyes should’ve been the first reminder of that. 

He doesn’t stir while he’s being moved from cobblestone to Appa, from Appa to the infirmary— and if she didn’t know any better, she’d say it was a startling case deja vu.

But she does know better, and she’s had to save his ass more times than a woman should have to save her close friend— who is also the leader of a wholeass nation.

She’s not hung up on his idiocy and utterly lack of selfishness— or maybe, it is truly a lack of selflessness, but she chooses to believe he cares more about his friends life than the loss of his own.

She knows he’s grown, but she also knows that feelings are sometimes hard to shake.

Toph cries for the first time in years, and with her comes the fall of Sokka.

She curls up against Zuko’s limp frame and whispers, “you’re the closest thing I’ve ever had to brother, and I need you to come back to me.”

She’ll never speak it for him to hear, but Katara hears it— and she has to force her tears down.

Sokka is silent— painfully so. He takes Zuko’s hand, eyebrows furrowed together in a deep frown, and simply waits in a resigned silence.

He first speaks, “I hate you. You can’t leave us after everything. You’re nineteen and you still have so much to do.”

He then declares, “I understand how it must feel, to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders. And if you’re selfish, so am I. So are we. Because we’re not ready to let you go.”

He finally considers that truly, if Zuko hadn’t pushed the assassin back in the way he did— there was no way Sokka would’ve survived the hit.

He’s not stupid enough to believe that Zuko isn’t the dumbest fucking self-sacrificing fucker he’s ever met, and he stands by that statement. Nor is he ever letting Zuko out of the group that he signed up for three years ago at the air temple where Katara threatened his life several times.

Oh, he ponders, watching as younger sister works on Zuko’s fever with healing hands, how the tides change. Tui and La, the constant push and pull.

How did Zuko go from trying to kill them, to saving them and building a martyr complex the size of the Fire Nation? And then he realises— oh, they’ve only made his martyr complex worse with the guilt that ways heavy from his past aggressions.

Despite it all, Sokka is not naïve enough to believe that Zuko isn’t a fighter— he knows that the stupid, idiot, butt-face, fucking self-sacrificing motherfucker will come back to them.

After all, the stubborn ass always has to have the last word. 

  
(“ _Did you eat my fire noodles?”_

_Sokka does the only honourable thing, and lies to spare his friend’s feelings and also maybe his own life, “... no.”_

_“Are you lying?”_

_Sokka nods, and Zuko glares at him with his eyes narrowed. “Sleep with one eye open, you rude, turtleduck fuck._ ”)

Suki blames herself— watching with brine-ridden tear-smeared-paint dawning her features.

She was supposed to protect him, and she had failed. She had been distracted by Ty Lee’s lips on her own, by the sights and sounds— and she had not been doing her duty.

For Sokka, or for Zuko. If— no, when he comes out of this, she’ll get him his favourite tea and offer him all the fire flakes he could possibly want.

She will cry, and he will tell her it’s not her fault.

But for now, she will wait.

Iroh will bow his head as he reads the letter— he will close his shop for as long as his nephew (for as long as his son) needs him, and he will be there for him. He will be there for his child, because that’s what a father does.

That is what a father should do.

Aang watches the scene with more fire in his eyes than he cares to admit— for a pacifist, he’s pretty close to murdering the assassin.

Ozai has taken too much from Zuko, he thinks, looking between the loyalist; since made bloody by Mai’s throwing knife, and the too-pale-Zuko, passed out on the old brick road.

Of course, Aang ponders, heart clenching all too tightly, it only makes sense that Ozai would try to take his life too.

He takes a deep breath in, and allows his exhale to fill the silence born from chaos. He rests a hand on Sokka’s shoulder, the other wrapped holding Katara’s bone weary hand.

And in the silence, he prays for more luck than they’re often given. 

**_iv._ **

* * *

Azula will pretend that she is fine, she will pretend that she is still the callous girl she was— she will tell herself that she doesn’t care, and she will tell herself she doesn’t need a brother. She doesn’t need Zuko, just like she doesn’t need their mother, or their father.

She will shove her hands into the pockets of her dress, and she will let hair fall over her shoulders in a placid way. She will watch the servants cower at the sight of her, and she will melt into the shadows as she allows soft footfalls to carry her up the steps of her former home. 

She pushes through flashbacks that bubble to the surface, and refuses to look into any of the mirrors.

She will see her brother after three years, she will see Kiyi’s tear ridden face— her mother’s face, and her step father’s face, and she will look away.

_I don’t need Zuko_ , she tells herself, _emotions are a distraction and I will never learn to love. Not if it kills me._

She will push open the door, quelling the sparks that threaten to spill from her finger tips.

She inhales, paces four steps forward— calculated like a game of pai sho. She was always the extreme aggressor.

Their Uncle holds Zuko’s hands, his Water Tribe friend with the silly ponytail snores in the corner. On her brother’s chest, a pale pink reminder of her violence blooms— on his side, a reminder of their nation’s, and on his face, their father’s. 

He has been hurt so many times— they both have, and they are learning to grow.

Azula exhales, struggling not to choke on an ugly sob that makes its presence known. 

Sometimes, life— sometimes death, really just gets in the way.

_**v.** _

* * *

Zuko, as he does more often than not, rises before the sun. This time, his brain feels useless, his limbs heavy and boneless as they weigh into the sheets beneath him.

His head instinctively burrows deeper into the pillow beneath his head, breath filling the air around him in a deep sigh that suspiciously resembles a snort.

He thanks Agni that no one is around to hear it.

Until he realises that a few things in this picture are very, _very_ wrong. For one, he’s sixty two percent confident that someone is talking to him— sounding like they’re trying to coax him awake.

And, oh Gods, they heard that noise— where is Toph when he needs her to have the earth swallow him whole?

“Zuko? Can you hear me?” He’s slowly coming back down from his nap— he feels like he’s transcended to a different plane of existence (is this what a good night of sleep feels like?). 

“Hey, open your eyes for me, dude.” It is absolutely Sokka, Zuko is positive of it.

A thumb tentatively strokes the back of his knuckles, and an alarm goes off in his head. He rarely sleeps through people entering his room— did they sleepover? He suddenly realises he can’t really remember anything after dinner last night— maybe he had a sip of saké too much?

_Oh_ , he realises, as the memories come in flashes, he was stabbed. That’s right. Katara’s going to kill him for almost dying. _Again_.

He lurches with a gasp, against his own accord, he may add. A hand flies to the spot where there should a laceration of some sort, quite possibly a puncture in his lungs but finds nothing but tender skin.

“It’s good to hear your lungs are working.” Katara blurts, voice dry and eyes unamused as she guides him back down with her hands on his shoulders. “Stop moving. You need to rest.”

“Katara?” His mouth feels like sandpaper, his tongue catching on the roof of his mouth as he speaks. She guides a cup filled with cool water to his lips, and he takes a few long sips struggling to pace himself.

“That’s me.” She confirms, as if he were actually asking. Her eyebrows come together in a way that easily translates to: I am actively worrying about you, you absolute dipshit.

He allow a quiet sigh to pass through his lips, his right hand absently finding the bruised skin dangerously close to his heart as he goes. 

“Zuko?” She asks, after a pause. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” He feels the glare that burns into the side of his face, and allows his body to become pliant. “A little stiff. How long have I been asleep?”

She scoffs, as if asleep begins to cover it. But it’s not Katara who answers, it’s Sokka. “Being unconscious for three days is not remotely similar to getting some rest.”

There’s something so bitter in his tone, and at the acrid burn the words leave in their wake, aureate eyes pry themselves open.

His first thought is: I’m sorry for saving you then. Maybe, I shouldn’t have.

But the fire that lights itself inside of him fizzles out, as he realises Sokka won’t meet his eyes.

Instead he says, “I’m sorry.”

Sokka shrugs, wiping his forearm over his eyes before rising to his feet and walking out of the room.

“You scared us,” Katara states after a moment, looking at the place where she guides the water over his bruised skin. Lifting her hands, she nods her head towards the door, “you can go talk to him, I know you won’t sleep until you do.”

He’s not sure when they came to and understanding of one another, but they did, and for that he’ll forever be grateful.

He rises to his feet, knees shaking from disuse as he hugs Katara— she squeezes him back just as tightly, and finally cracks when he whispers his gratitude.

“You’re welcome.” She pulls away, cupping his cheek to take one last look at him. “Please go wash up before you talk to Sokka, you smell so bad.”

He snorts, cheeks flushing as he bats her hands away— but takes her advice. Slowly, he manages to wash away the grime and sweat from his skin (twice, for good measure).

Zuko tugs on a robe, and begins his slow journey to the ambassadors room; finding Sokka with all of the windows open, laying on the bed, bathing in the warm rays of sunlight.

“Hey,” he greets, and Sokka doesn’t dare look at him. He softens, instinctively holding a hand to his chest as he lowers himself at Sokka’s torso. “I’m not sorry for what I did, but I am sorry for not considering how you’d feel. It wasn’t—“

Arms find their way around him, his best friend’s face finding its way into his shoulder as a suspicious wetness coats his shoulder.

“You’re so fucking stupid,” Sokka hisses, but it lacks on real heat— the intent only further diluted by the sob that claws its way from his throat when Zuko hugs him back. “Don’t ever pull that shit again, I’ll kill you myself.”

“Just like old times?” The Fire Lord offers nonchalantly, as if he hadn’t almost died a few days ago— as if he hadn’t almost died to save Sokka.

Zuko closes his eyes, burying his face in Sokka’s shoulder, pulling him marginally tighter. “I don’t make promises that I can’t keep.”

Sokka only takes in a deep breath, and on the exhale he whispers, “Thank you for saving me, Jerkbender.”

“Couldn’t let you get assassinated. If you did, Toph wouldn’t have anyone to make fun of anymore.”

Sokka punches his shoulder, Zuko hisses in pain and— _yeah_ , he thinks, _they’re even._

**Author's Note:**

> anyways i just had some shit go down irl so expect a few aggressively sad fics soon. hope you all have a wonderful day, stay hydrated! and don’t forget to tell me what you thought of this fic.


End file.
